White Blank Page
by Leigh Adams15
Summary: Can you lie next to her and give her your heart, as well as your body?


**Title:** White Blank Page (1/1)

**Author:** Leigh Adams

**Pairing:** Bill Weasley/Pansy Parkinson

**Rating:** R

**Word Count:** 2,419

**Summary:** _Can you lie next to her and give her your heart, as well as your body?_

**Author's Notes:** Many, many thanks (and virtual cookies) to my beta, Elle Blessing , for her suggestions and notes. Couldn't have done it without you, sweets! This was a pairing I'd never written (or even thought about writing) before, so I hope it turned out okay. The title is based off the song White Blank Page by Mumford and Sons.

* * *

**_Pain._**

It was the only sensation Bill was aware of. In the months following the Final Battle, it consumed him. The loss of Fred hurt, but that wasn't the reason he felt as if a piece of his heart had shattered and would never be made whole again. He knew his family needed him to be strong, to help them all move on, but he just… he _couldn't_.

Because she was gone.

He replayed that moment over and over again in his dreams—his nightmares, really. It was written in his mind as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. Fleur, locked in a duel with Rookwood, her beautiful face drawn in concentration as she dodged curses and flung hexes at her opponent. If only he'd been a step faster, or sent the hex off a second sooner…

His wife had never seen it coming.

A flash of green light, and it was all over. Fleur, their life together, _everything_. It was over.

That was why he'd returned to Egypt. The only reason to stay in England was gone, and he was selfish enough not to care that his family was in mourning too. He missed Fred, but the loss of his brother wasn't the same as the loss of his wife. She'd been so young, so full of energy and life, that it was still hard for him to process that he'd never see her smile again, never feel the slide of her skin against his as they made love.

There were nights when he would dream of her—most nights, really. He could still smell the floral scent of her hair, feel the lightness of her fingers as they traced the scars on his marred face. He dreamed of kissing her, holding her in his arms, making love to her.

Sometimes the dreams were so vivid, so _real_, that he woke hard as a rock and thrusting against the pillow. His body yearned for her touch, needed it, but the touch of another woman felt like a betrayal to her memory. On those nights, he would find release at his own hand before falling back against the sweat-drenched sheets.

Bill was like a zombie. He woke up, he worked, he drank, he slept—and thus the cycle repeated itself over and over, day after day. The months melted together into one fluid entity, slowly turning into years. Unanswered owls piled up on his dusty old desk, and not even a visit from Charlie could snap him out of his self-loathing.

It was _his_ fault Fleur was dead. He should have protected and kept her safe. That was his duty as her husband, as a _man_. He'd failed her, and she'd been killed. There was no way anyone could convince him otherwise.

And so he trudged on; never feeling, never noticing anything.

Until _she_ walked into his life.

**_Surprise._**

He'd heard in passing that a new team was coming in from the British Museum, but he hadn't paid it much heed. When it came to magical artifacts, the Museum employed competent witches and wizards, and they knew how to keep quiet and stay out of Bill's way.

The last person he'd expected to see at a dusty old dig site in the Theban Necropolis was Pansy Parkinson. He didn't know her very well—or at all, really—but he'd heard bits and pieces of news from the other cursebreakers who spent their time in England. Apparently, her trial had been front-page news for quite some time following the war.

Not that Bill cared.

She spent a year in Azkaban for her father's crimes. He'd been killed during the Final Battle, his wife murdered by Voldemort a year before. Pansy was the last surviving Parkinson, and the Ministry had wanted to make an example of the old purebloods. He'd heard about it, then promptly shoved the knowledge to the side.

But there she was, the lone woman amongst their dig team. The Egyptian workers were all whispering about her arrival; women didn't work in the tombs—bad luck—and they _certainly_ didn't wear trousers, nor mingle with men with their face unveiled and their head uncovered. She didn't seem concerned with that, though, and set about giving orders as their research equipment was unpacked.

In passing, their eyes met. It was only for half a second, but Bill felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach.

He hadn't seen eyes in that light a shade of blue since Fleur had died.

Bill pushed the sight out of his mind. He could ignore her, of that he was certain. He generally ignored his colleagues, taking very little pleasure in mingling around the campfire or swapping bawdry tales with the other lads. They'd long since given up on trying to coax him into joining them, instead leaving him to his thoughts alone in his tent.

Except… he couldn't seem to ignore Pansy.

She didn't foist herself on him. She wasn't a loud, obnoxious woman. She was rather demanding, but he quickly noticed that her demands always helped the team rather than just herself. She had a keen mind, and he was surprised to learn that she was well-versed in ancient Egyptian history _and_ could read hieroglyphics. She took remarkably detailed notes, penning down all their finds with the eagle quill she kept tucked in her dark hair.

He found himself not minding when she accompanied him down into the tombs. Most women would have complained about the dampness or the smell, but she soldiered on. There were some days he had trouble reconciling the image of the pampered pureblood princess with the woman before him, the one who painstakingly dusted the ivory statuette of Serket, the scorpion goddess, by hand.

"She who tightens the throat," she murmured as she went about her dusting, taking notes as she did.

If only he'd known how true that statement would be.

Weeks went by, and eventually the team from the British Museum left. Their research was done, the artifacts they'd collected packed up into crates and readied for the trip back to London.

Pansy stayed behind.

Again, Bill was surprised. But this time, he was surprised to note that he cared.

**_Desire._**

Their relationship evolved into an easy friendship. They didn't talk often; in fact, theirs might have been the quietest friendship in the history of the world. But they were often seen in one another's company, comparing notes and examining potentially cursed artifacts.

He took her on a trip into Luxor with him. The campsite was running low on some provisions, and after weeks in the desert with just the other excavators for company, the city was a welcome escape. Pansy had never been to Luxor, and he found that he was looking forward to showing her around the temple and the marketplace.

But when she emerged from her tent to join him, all it took was one look, and his mouth was instantly dry. The black sheer dress clung effortlessly to her curves, and the sheer half-veil added a level of intrigue he'd associated with her before. She looked, in a word, beautiful.

She noticed his stare and her lips twitched as she wryly said, "What? You can't expect me to wear trousers when there's shopping to be done."

And for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Bill laughed.

They spent all day in Luxor, mingling in the market and picking up different sundries for the team. Dried dates, _eish masri_, lamb, chickpeas, and other foods were procured, as well as parchment, quills, and a few leather-bound notebooks. He watched her barter with the market women, trade a silver bracelet for a bolt of red fabric, and the look on her face at her first taste of falafel had been priceless.

The sun set, and the torches lighting the streets were flickering when they stumbled upon the street performers. Couples danced around the fire and Pansy's blue eyes were bright with excitement as she watched them. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the dance, just bodies moving to the heady beat of the drum.

She tipped her face up to him. "Dance with me."

He shook his head.

"Weasley, I don't say please," she said, tone clearly peeved. She moved to stand in front of him and held out one hand in offering. "Dance with me."

It was wrong to want to dance with her. He hadn't danced since his wedding, not since Fleur… it had been a long time. But he felt as if he were someone else, here in Egypt with Pansy, and there was something about her that made him _want_ her.

His lips curled in a small smirk when he stepped towards her, one strong arm curling around her waist as he swept her into to the circle of dancers. He didn't know the steps—neither of them did—but it didn't matter. Her hand was soft, remarkably so for six months of dirty work, and he could smell the sweet scent of her hair when he spun her under his arm.

One dance melted into two, then three. By then, Bill had lost count. The audience began to diminish as the night grew long, but they didn't notice. Hands pressed against her sheer dress, fingers gripping the material as their bodies swayed to the music. Her hands slid lightly over his faded work shirt, and her cheeks were flushed pink with exertion.

She looked positively exquisite. A desert rose, plucked from fair England and set down in the wilds of Egypt.

All too soon, they were back at the campsite, Bill's hand on the small of her back as he led her through the little tent village. "I had fun," he admitted when they stopped at her tent. During the course of the evening, she'd lost the veil, and the moonlight made her dark hair shine like ink.

"As did I," she replied. A beat passed, and before he could react, her lips were pressed against his.

The kiss lasted a second, maybe, but it stunned him. His lips were still parted with surprise when she pulled away.

"I won't apologize," she said bluntly. "I've wanted to do that for weeks."

Another pause, and any thoughts flew out the door as Bill wrapped his arms around her and claimed her lips in a fiery kiss.

_**Hurt.**_

Months passed. The summer faded into the fall, which in turn gave way to the winter. Cool, desert nights were warmed with the press of bare skin, the caress of hands, and the touch of lips as they moved together, chasing away the demons that lay waiting in their dreams.

He learned a lot about Pansy during their time as lovers. She missed England but would never go back, she hated Draco for not visiting her in prison, and her favorite color was purple. She never drank tea, loathed pansies, and she practically melted in his hands when he flicked her earlobe with his tongue. She was a riddle, wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

He taught her a few phrases of Arabic, and she in turn taught him how to feel again.

It was only sex, or at least it had been in the beginning. But as the time passed, Bill felt something more. He enjoyed waking up with her in the mornings, and he looked forward to time _after_ work as much as he did work itself. He smiled more often, and sometimes even sat around the fire, drinking beer with the other site workers. He was learning to feel—and live—again.

Life with Pansy was starting to feel like _life_.

Until, one day, she wasn't there anymore.

None of the other cursebreakers knew where she'd gone. Her tent had been taken down, her belongings packed, and it seemed as if she'd simply vanished into the desert. All he knew was that she'd been in his bed when they'd fallen asleep, and the next morning, she'd been gone.

Bill searched the nearby valleys—she'd expressed interest in the Valley of the Queens—to no avail. He went into Luxor, even traveling as far upriver as Cairo before he gave up and trudged back to the dig site. There was no way around the truth. Pansy was gone.

He threw himself back into his work, opening tombs and dismantling curses like a man possessed. Whatever strides he'd made during their time together disappeared. The joy he'd found in life diminished, and it was back to his old cycle.

Wake, work, drink, sleep. Repeat.

The owl had appeared out of nowhere, circling and dropping down on his tent on a bright Sunday morning. Though he didn't know the bird, he _did_ recognize the hue of its feathers. He'd seen it before, one feather tucked in Pansy's hair.

He glared at the proffered letter for some time, ignoring the hoots of indignation from the messenger. Finally, he plucked the letter from the bird's talons.

It gave him a small bit of satisfaction to pluck the wax seal off the letter, the bold "P" proudly emblazoned there, and fling it like a disc into the sand. Opening the folded parchment, he began to read.

_Bill, _

_ I imagine you're quite angry with me, and I cannot say that I blame you. Leaving in the middle of the night isn't particularly noble, but I've never claimed to be as such. I have my reasons, and my reasons they will stay. _

_ Please don't think that I left because of you. I don't know if I have the capacity to love; if I do, then I feel it for you. But there are too many barriers for us. For one, you're still not over Fleur, and you never will be. I'm not saying you should be over her—she was your wife and the love of your life—but she isn't coming back, Bill. I wish, for your sake, that she could. _

_ I can never go back to England, but you can. You still have family who love you. Do not underestimate how precious that gift is. I would give anything to have my parents to go home to, but wishing as such is for fools. And you, Bill, are no fool. _

_ Hate me if you must. But I left so you could live again. One day, you'll see that. _

_ Until then, know that you're in my thoughts. _

_ Yours, _

_ Pansy_

_Damn her_, he thought, crumpling the parchment. Damn that woman and her enchanting eyes, her quick mind, and her lack of nobility. She could run, but Bill was a hunter—or the wolf inside of him was.

He would find Pansy Parkinson and make her see just how _wrong_ she was.


End file.
